The Raven and the Hawk
by WritingByNight
Summary: Justice/F!Hawke/Anders themed drabbles, and one-shots, from the Strongest Force/Tempering Justice continuity, in no particular order.
1. Comfort

**Comfort**

She _loved_ his coat.

For all it's impracticality, and for all that she teased about his clothing being ridiculous, she loved his coat like it, too, is just another piece of him - a part of the whole that she fell in love with, like Justice.

She loved the way it looked, clinging to his lanky frame, with buckles and clasps that used to exasperate and confuse her; at how tightly locked away he always kept himself from her, and she loved how quickly her hands learned to set him free.

She loved the way it smelled, the heady, male scent of _him_ wafting so maddeningly close whenever he was around her; the cause of a hundred nights of heartbreak, until the night she could finally wrap herself utterly in him and drown.

She loved the way it felt, fluffy feathers at just the right height to nuzzle against after a long day of zealots and Qunari; the upper portion just the right size for _her_ to wear, in nothing but it, a wicked smile, and her smallclothes - irresistible temptation for him to come to bed, no matter how hard he worked on the manifesto.

He's got a new coat now. Ever since they went to the Chantry, but she _hates_ it.

It looks good on him - better even, for the stark coloration exudes a commanding aura; it smells the same, and the feathers look just as soft as ever, yet she hates how this coat causes him to haunt her home like a overgrown raven, the specter for a funeral - whose she cannot tell. He's locked himself back up again, tighter and more distant than before, and what Hawke hates the most about his new coat is her inability to reach him this time, chained to his cause.

She'd never tell him these things, of course, not when there's so many other _things_ they're not telling each other, and it's precisely because of these other _things_ that she takes comfort where she can.

And if Anders suspects how much she loved his coat, finding her wrapped up in it, the goose-grey feathers matted with drying tears, there's enough discretion left in him - at least where she's concerned as he strips it from her, and makes love to her like it's the last time - that he doesn't comment on it.


	2. Children of the Revolution

**Children of the Revolution**

_"Children are innocent and love justice, while most adults are wicked and prefer mercy." - G. K. Chesterton_

This world is changing, albeit slowly.

Such is the way of things, for prejudice cannot disappear overnight, and it will be years still, perhaps hundreds, before a mage will ever be judged purely by the content of their character, and not their capacity for magic.

Time brings clarity; purpose subjected to extremes, rock molten and molded anew under pressures that come with a mortal world and mortal form - a volcanic fury which cools, steadily, to polished obsidian, and purpose endures, although in different matter, with an acceptance of _what-is_ that brings semblance of patience, and a measure of peace.

The war has long been over, future seeded amongst its ashes, in new life, in new laws, and in new values imposed on the children of the revolution, in the hopes that the next generation - the first tenacious sproutlings - will flourish and survive.

It is not perfect, but nothing in this world is, and, in this, justice is served.

It is enough.

* * *

><p>Anders heads homeward, after another day of paying lives forward until the final payment Calls, and marvels, as he often does, at the precious freedoms that have been afforded to them. Nobody seeks to stop him, no one gives a second look but then, nobody really knows the truth outside their identity of the village healer and his family that they have carefully crafted.<p>

Small blessings for Varric's stories - people remember the myths, not the men.

"Ow! Ow, Mo-om, stop it. That hurts!"

A child's cry that shatters the fragile illusion, fears that will never fully fade casting haste to feet, and, heart racing, they run the rest, the cats springing clear from their path. Hawke sits on the porch with their youngest (if only by a few minutes), the boy chafing under her examination, his twin looking on behind.

"Maybe you should have thought of that beforehand... and it wouldn't hurt as much if you stopped squirming." She dabs gingerly with a cloth at the boy's lip, piercing eyes that glance up, marking their approach, and adds quickly to Anders, "It's _fine_. Everything's fine, love. Just a schoolyard row. Carver used to get into scrapes like this all the time."

Thank the Maker. Anders exhales painfully, weak with relief, and sweeps up his daughter in a hug before he joins his wife's side. "You've been fighting? With who?" Malcolm deliberately avoids his eyes, avoids the question, lip busted and skin covered in many minor cuts, leaves and clods of dirt tangled in dark hair.

Elke pips up, helpfully, "It was Henri and Franz," leaving her twin to scowl at her, hissing, "Tattle-tale."

"La Roux's boys? Both at once?" Anders reaches to his son's face to mend the wounds, torn between furious disapproval and a odd sense of pride; that his son would fight even when outnumbered and outmatched.

"You know how that family feels about magic." Hawke chides quietly. Not that it stopped the La Roux patriarch from coming to Anders last winter, after breaking an arm from a bad fall, spouting how his case was 'different.' Prejudice may die slowly, but hypocrisy, it seems, will always exist.

"I just tackled them - s' not like I shot lightning or anything at 'em."

"But you could have," Anders replies heatedly, scales tipping into righteous anger, lines between himself and Justice blurring further, as they always do, when this family is threatened. "I know you don't have magic yet, but that doesn't mean you never will. I was far older than either of you before I showed signs. It could come at anytime. _Especially_ if you're angry or scared. You could have seriously hurt someone. You could have hurt them, or worse - hurt yourself or your sister - "

Malcolm's eyes widen slightly, more out of curiosity than fright as his father breaks off sharply, and opens his mouth to speak before closing it quickly, as if he thought better of it. This is not the first time the children have met their father's 'grumpy blue friend,' but the occurrence is by no means common.

"You may have jeopardized this family unnecessarily." Justice stares at the child, sternly, unblinking. "What cause did you have to quarrel?"

"Daddy's _glowing_ again," Elke titters uncontrollably, her little fingers following the lines of blue along their skin with great interest, and Justice shifted her carefully, so that she might not become unbalanced in her exploration.

"Yes, sweetheart. We talked about this last time, remember?" Hawke shushes her gently, and places a hand on their arm, looking encouragingly to her awe-stuck son. "Answer your father."

Malcolm stares back for a moment, then looks downcast, mumbling, "They were calling us names. Calling you and Mom names."

"There will be many that might call us names in your lifetime. It does not lend any more credence to your actions."

"But they started it! What they were saying, I - That's not right!" The boy protests, his father's amber eyes snapping up passionately. "That's not _fair_."

"No. It is not." Justice replies, forlorn, for the spirit knows that he, too, once possessed that same childish innocence, the same blind certainty about this world, whilst being completely unable to see his own shortcomings. "But you _can_ be. You must strive to be. Do you understand, little one?"

Malcolm shrugs, non-committal.

"You will, in time," Justice assures, something like a half-smile flickering across their face, and with that, the spirit retracts completely. Anders presses one palm against his forehead, sighing heavily.

"Dad?" A beat.

Anders shakes his head, sickened with that old self-hatred, the knowledge that his children must understand _this_ as well, whispering, "I'm sorry," as he pulls his son close.

"It's okay, Daddy," Elke hugs her father's neck; her namesake, her grandmother, in miniature. "We know your friend was worried, too."

* * *

><p>The world is changing, and they, even ideas, change with it.<p> 


	3. Grace

**Grace**

It had to happen sooner or later.

That was the problem with being an authority figure, especially one leading a revolution - people tended to look to you for authority, and she had always had a habit of collecting and protecting people like strays.

After the Nevarra Circle Uprising they'd picked up nearly twenty mages; some desperate to follow them to the relative safety of Tevinter, some wanting to stay with them afterward, for when they brought the war against the Divine. Useful, certainly, for inevitable templar run-ins. Not so much for hiding that your lover was an abomination or you're predisposed to dabble a little - just a little mind - in blood magic when the chips were down.

And when some templar prig rushed at her, knocking her down with a crushing blow... well, Vengeance hadn't been too pleased about that.

Not that Hawke got the see it. Liesl, one of the mages on the run from Cumberland, mentally blasted the bastard away and immediately set to work on the worst of her injuries. She wasn't nearly as good as Anders with healing, but given the horrified howls from the templars the blond mage's mind wasn't in the best place for such delicate work.

Hawke hissed as the tendrils of magic knitted flesh and bone back together; she hadn't even been aware of the slice she took to her back. Looked like Vael was going to stop treating her with kit-gloves. Either that, or he had stopped waffling enough to decide that he hated her more than he loved her. "Help me up," She muttered blearily, trying to ignore the pinched feeling of a cracked rib.

Liesl shook her head. "You're too hurt."

"You don't know how he gets!" She snapped at the girl, the pain making her words harder than necessary, but, Maker, this was important. He - they - needed her. "So _help me up._"

The girl hesitated slightly, but then shouted for her friend. Martel rushed close, and carefully pulled Hawke to standing, his arms steadying her back and uninjured side as Liesl continued pouring magic into her battered shell. The fighting before them had ceased but Vengeance still stood, looming over the mess of meat that used to be a man, blue-black smoke blurring the edges of his skin.

Hawke waved the two Cumberland mages away, wobbling the rest of the way over, and placed a shaky hand on Vengeance's arm. His attention spun, ever on edge, but the fire in his eyes dimmed considerably at meeting the cool blue of her own. "Love... Love, it's over."

"**The Starkhaven heir will pay for his insult.**" The spirit roared, light flickering along the fissures in his flesh from his anger. "**You were blameless to our perfidy, he knows this!**"

"He's doing it because he knows it will hurt you," She replied tenderly, winding her fingers through the feathers on his coat, as much to calm him as to help her stand. "But I'm here. I'm still here."

Vengeance sucked in a harsh breath, the wrath not yet willing to yield, but Hawke has long figured out by now what best tempers him. And while the spirit still acts like an embarrassed virgin most of the time, with kissing, at least, she's gotten him to be perfectly comfortable.

He stilled at once as she pressed her lips forward, and Hawke can almost feel the torrent of emotion that washes through him. Vengeance breathed raggedly, struggling within himself for a moment until he suddenly clasped her face. He drinks deeply from her lips, again and again, Hawke reeling from the force, until the fire inside seemed, at last, smothered once more. Justice pulled back, the hands holding her firm still speckled lyrium-blue, but now devoid of smoke.

"You are injured." He murmured.

"Not too badly, and the worst of it has been taken care of." She smiled faintly, nodding at the assorted mages watching them, anxiously. "But it looks like we'll finally have to give the rest of the children the Talk."

"We will lose many good allies." Justice frowned. "They... will not understand."

"They might." Hawke chuffed a weak laugh. "I did."

Justice said nothing, and instead gathered her hands in his, turning them palm up. He kissed them and buried his face there a moment, soaking in her grace, as Hawke gazed at him lovingly, in equal measures, for both spirit and man.

"You'll find me in the Fade tonight?" She asked shyly.

Justice glanced up, the blue in his eyes beginning to melt back into brown. "Always, Lady."

Behind them, as Anders came back to himself, and Hawke collapsed in his arms, Liesl heaved a sigh at the sight of the two revolutionaries in love. "They're rather sweet, aren't they?"

Martel snorted, and shot her a dark look. "I suppose. If by 'sweet,' you mean completely fucked up."

The mage girl chuckled and took his hand. "It can be both."


	4. Affirmation

**Affirmation**

"I feel for the mages, I do. I would not wish to be locked in the Gallows - "

"What person would?" Hawke shrieked, temper rising over hushed and shocked whispers from the Sisters, voice echoing in the silted silence of the Chantry. It seemed that all her conversation with this woman only frustrated and infuriated her. "Do the mages even get to see the sun nowadays? What kind of life is that? No one would wish that!"

The Grand Cleric furrowed her brow, the first bit of steel Hawke's ever seen entering her tone. "As I've said before, I cannot take sides. If it comes to war, it is the people of this city that will lose." Hawke opened her mouth to protest further, but Elthina held up a hand, looking pained. "Another time, Champion, please. I have other matters to attend."

Elthina bowed out and took up conversation with one of the lay Sisters; Hawke, rooted to the spot by her anger, ran both hands desperately into her own hair. Uncertain what further distraction could she provide, other than screaming bloody murder or yanking her entire scalp off, and worried that her lover had been caught doing... whatever it was he was doing, she jumped visibly when the gentle hand on her arm was not the man she hoped and expected.

"Hawke."

"Not now, Sebastian. I don't need your platitudes." She hissed, dropping her hands from her hair, and cast her gaze briefly at the Chantry doors. By the Blight, where was he?

"Accept my concern, then." The Starkhaven Prince continued with his unruffled mien, glossing over her derision. "I know we do not always see eye to eye, but you must know that I nevertheless care for your welfare. You work yourself to exhaustion for these mages - do you think they do the same?"

"They're not the bloody Champion of Kirkwall. I am. And, but for the whim of chance, I could easily be in their place - my position comes with responsibility." She smiled thinly, head tilted, and deliberately made her words pointed. "We all can't stand back and hope the Maker solves our problems for us - be it justice for the mages here or retaking Starkhaven."

It was Sebastian's turn to sigh; this was an old, old battle between them, one that seemed never to be put to rest, and he had no wish to pursue it. "Be honest with me, Hawke. Have you ever _tried_ to lay your burdens down at His feet? Confession is good for the soul."

"The Maker turned His back on us. Why should He care to hear what I have to say to Him - a mage of all people? It'd probably be nothing but swearing, anyway."

"Ah, but we are all the Maker's children, are we not? No matter how wayward." Hawke bristled slightly at his serenity, but said nothing, and Sebastian took her silence for acquiescence. He patted her arm kindly, and went to rejoin Elthina, "Perhaps it has been far too long since you and He spoke."

Feeling burdened Sebastian's parting words, and lingering so long in the Maker's house, Hawke descended down the stairs, wrapping her arms around herself as if to ward off His disapproving gaze. It was one of the reasons she avoided the Chantry in Lothering, besides the omnipresent danger of Templars; It was not that she did not have faith, just that her doubts were many. 'Mages are cursed by the Maker' was the common peasant's mantra, and piety did not come easy to one embittered by a religion that spouted insult at every turn for your mere existence.

No, she would not talk to the Maker.

Fretfully, she glanced back where Elthina was still in conversation with Sebastian - no doubt him urging her to leave Kirkwall again, and Hawke felt the distaste rise in her throat. With position came responsibility; time and again Elthina was guilty of the same fault she found in Sebastian. There were rumors that the Knight-Commander has sent for the Right of Annulment; the Divine was considering an indiscriminate March, and Elthina wouldn't ever _pretend_ to listen. But then, she's never listened about anything. Not when zealots were provoking the Qunari at every turn, and a Lowtown city block got nuked by poisonous gas. Not when they warned her that Petrice was running loose, and Saemus paid for her inaction with his life. Did she care for any but her flock of Hightown nobles? Now that she thought about it, Hawke has never seen a Sister in the Alienage or in Darktown. They didn't care about Kirkwall's abandoned.

Not like Anders did.

At this, Hawke had to take a seat on one of the pews, heart clenching with the thought of her lover, what he asked of her raw and fresh in her mind. How she had fisted her hands in his coat, wanting to shake him; how tenderly those lean fingers pried hers away, his amber eyes stricken.

Heartsick, she looked up at the golden statue of Andraste in her battle regalia, a leader who gave hope to the hopeless, led her people to freedom. Her divinity could be doubted, but her achievements, as a remarkable woman, were worthy of respect nevertheless, and Hawke wondered if the rumors were true; during one of Anders' more melancholy fits, he removed a whole section from his manifesto, lacking enough proof for a subject already deemed heretical - that Andraste knew well the dangers and potential for the misuse of magic because the warrior-prophetess was a mage herself.

"I... I know we've never really talked before," Hawke confessed awkwardly, fighting the bitter desire to laugh at herself; she'd never thought she'd beseech divine aid beyond blasphemous swears, and unconscious pleas for self-preservation in the midst of battle. But she needed an excuse to remain in the Chantry, for Anders to find her, and perhaps the Maker's Bride had more sympathetic ears - regardless of whether or not she was a mage herself.

"Honestly, I'm not certain if you're even there. But... what's happening in the Circles here, it can't be what you meant. It can't be; they've... twisted your words. The mages here don't want to rule, they just want to _live_, and now they might not have that even. Some fine Champion I've turned out to be." She checked on the position of the Grand Cleric, as behind her another lay Sister chatted blithely with a noblewoman, planning a wedding when her beau hadn't even proposed the engagement. The conversation stung at her ears - Mages weren't allowed to marry each other. "Come to think of it, I'm a pretty ineffectual friend as well."

"Merrill cried for hours after she shattered the mirror. Danarius is dead, but that has brought Fenris no peace. And Anders, he - "_And, what?_ The words swam in her throat. That your lover is splintering at the seams, and your presence is nothing but a palliative for this painful process? That you'd storm the Black City, step onto the pyre, if you thought it would ease his smile? That despite everything you've done to support him, support Justice, there's these _things_ that he can't - won't - tell you?

"I don't know what he's molding me for," She blurted out, fighting back the sob. "I don't know what he needs me to be. Did you ever feel this way? Did you think He used you too?" Sacrilegious conjecture, she knew, but Andraste believed in the Maker, and Maker help her, Hawke believes in Anders, this man who loved her with all-consuming intensity; who wanted her to be his voice, and sought to change the world with his words.

How do you resist it, the love of a god, when he's chosen you and needs you? Do you follow him, even if it means killing yourself?

"I've been looking for you," He interrupts, louder than necessary with false joviality. Hawke whirls from the pew to look at Anders, and those expressive eyes hold more misery than she thought a man could possess. He might not have heard everything, but he has certainly heard enough, standing, waiting behind her as the gulf stretched between them, and the words jostled and strained her heart, pushed at her teeth, and she felt herself almost break apart.

_Tell me - what are you doing with me?_

But she always knew with what she was getting involved - the trials and tribulations that came with loving a man possessed, though he'd tried time and again to warn her away. He never pushed her, wouldn't push her even now.

It was always her choice.

So be it - To the Black City, to the pyre. Her life was _never_ normal. Hawke swallowed her doubts, and follows her faith, breaching the gap. His hand wrapped around her waist, leading her out of the Chantry, back into the light, and the rays of sunshine dance like licking flames.


	5. Relics and Reliefs

BSN Prompt:** Relief**

Andra gazed at the large stone carving, thoughtfully noting the rich detail and delicate, loving craftsmanship, all the hours that the poor carver must have slaved away to capture the image perfectly, before deciding, just as thoughtfully, that there was so much about it that was all wrong.

Oh, the basics were fine. Everyone knew how they had melted away the old words and inscribed the tenets for the new Chant on its forbearer. Everyone knew that they had left behind their symbol of mage freedom; of the raven and the hawk in flight, which was eventually adopted by the Chantry, using the matched pair to form the circle to the Maker's sunburst.

Everyone knew that.

But no Champion would have waded into battle against armored men with hair _that_ long and flowing, which was a combat hazard, (and a swift death sentence) if she ever saw one, and the limestone relief depicted the Reformation at Cumberland in broad daylight, a single shaft of sunlight descending from the heavens to rest on the Man of the Anderfels, his great love and supporter at his arm.

"Tell me, child. What do you think of it?" The Curator (or so Andra supposed) drawled warmly, drawing up beside her, and obviously appreciative that not _everyone_ from their class trip had buggered off outside to have snowball fights in the afternoon Solace heat.

Andra shoved her hands into her pockets, and shrugged. "It's awfully... romantic," she said, in the same way someone might suggest 'silly,' but at the same time, not wishing to outright offend what was another person's passion. "I mean, there's no way they could have pulled it off during the day. There would have been guards, or something, that would have caught them. Would make a rather short end to a revolution. And the Champion's hair is impossibly and impractically long."

"How true. The style, I'm afraid, in Tevinter at the time. " She agreed with a short laugh, tossing her equally long, silvered hair over her shoulder. "But if you think it dramatic now, you should imagine it as it was. _Terribly_ gaudy when freshly painted, and hanging before the altar. See, how it still has color in places?"

Andra squinted at the prophet's tiny face, where time and the elements had weathered the stone, and worn away much of the light paint. "Yellow... He had light hair, then?"

She nodded approvingly. "You have a good eye, my dear. Blondes were common enough, in the Anderfels."

"What about his eyes?"

"'The golden eye of justice sees, and requites the unjust man,' hm?" The Curator smiled, knife-shape, her own golden eyes glimmering with private humor. "Most scholars believe that axiom to be part of his early writings, during his tenure in Kirkwall, and - _of course_ - strictly metaphorical." She tapped her chin with one long finger, her expression shifting into something inscrutable. "Popular opinion can never decide as to whether they were brown or blue..." A flash of that secretive smile, again. "And if you ask me, neither could he."

Andra frowned slightly, a bit confused as to what that's supposed to mean, and reconsidered the stone relief again, focused this time on the prophet's wife. The carver was skilled, probably one of the best of his generation, and, even now, there was steel and spine to the woman's bearing, a bold angle of the tilt to the Champion's chin as smiled at her husband. "And her?"

"Ahh. _Her_. A woman who always kept her end of a bargain... Child, you might as well split wheat from chaff or metal from dross. 'Twould be far simpler to apply yourself to those arduous tasks than to separate the fact from fiction about her... Believe not the storyteller, for the storyteller always lies. Dwarven ones moreso." The Curator glanced at Andra's increasingly baffled expression, tutted a sigh, and seemed to take pity on her. "It's in my experience, my dear, that the _perceived_ is far more enduring, and accepted, than what may actually be _true_."

Andra nodded slowly at that. Truly, it was hard to say what either of them _really_ looked like. So much about that violent time in their history has been lost over the years. The Reforms, the Qunari Invasion, then the Return... It wasn't all that different than Andraste, their forerunner, and while change may occur, revolutions, however, always ate their heroes. What happened to the prophet and his Champion was inevitable. Everyone _knew_ that. Except -

"I don't believe it, you know." Andra blurted her thoughts out loud, staring at the limestone relief; at how the prophet seemed to smile back at his lady with equal love and admiration. Their doomed happiness, and their supposed unfortunate end, hurt her heart. "After everything they did. After all of it, after they had _won_, and no one ever actually saw them die..."

"You are required to believe nothing, child. One of many blessings afforded to you." She chided dryly. "History has it's shepherds, as well as it's butchers."

"Who says the two can't overlap?"

"Not I, my dear." Another smirk. "Not I. But nothing comes free. Not life. Not justice. And certainly not change. There's a price for everything. Perhaps their existence as Champion and Prophet was the only fitting payment."

Andra raised an eyebrow. She still didn't believe a bit of it, and was now more than a little put off by this old woman who talked too damn much. The Curator straightened to her full height, taller than she initially appeared, and companionably steered Andra towards the great glass windows.

"Regardless how they might have died or lived, would you not agree in their more lasting legacy?" The Curator whispered somewhere near her ear. "Was this not worth fighting, and perhaps dying, for?"

Outside, her classmates of humans, elvhen, and dwarves hid and fought behind hastily crafted snow forts. The elder apprentices supplied fresh snowfall, and shot playful jets of frost at one another, while their Enchanter chaperone for this day trip was trying much too hard to look serious, and not like he wanted to join in the fun himself. Around them all, the air felt rich and alive with laughter and magic.

Tears stung at Andra's eyes, and she smiled softly.

"Yes, I suppose it is," she whispered, turning back at look at the Curator, and instead, found herself alone with the relics and reliefs of history.


	6. Inner Silence

BSN Prompt: **Silence**

It used to scare the shit out of him, the discordant and unnatural separation of living and yet not living in one's own body.

In the muffled quiet, he had sight, but without the act of seeing; sound that bypassed hearing. Trapped in the hallows behind his eyes, he'd voicelessly scream to a tongue that would not answer, limbs that would give him no response, while the ghost-hands would puppet his - their - body.

During seldom self-awareness in the Fade or those rare white-hot rages, Anders used to shudder at the prison their own body could make of him. Too much like a abomination, when there's blood on their hands. Too much like solitary, thrust back, helplessly, and caged in darkness, beating soundless against the bars in his mind. Too much to handle, and thus, too much to reconcile; they rejected their nature, and did not realize that they are something entirely _new_.

For he is as much Justice's jailer as the spirit is his own, she reminds him, with such sympathy that few others would share. Two pieces of a greater whole, and in understanding that he'll never find peace with himself if he's constantly at war, something, subtly, _shifts_.

Nowadays, it's easier. Still awkward, bleeding into each other as they are - separate, and yet the same - but when the haze of righteousness descends, and sensation veils, falling sway under the spirit's strength, there's an odd, freeing tranquility that follows in the disconnecting stillness. For even though this body is not entirely his own, he is learning to trust his other half with it; even though he cannot speak when the shadows shroud, Justice can always hear him, and neither of them are truly imprisoned friendless or alone.

A intense hush blankets the battlefield, and the mages that follow them keep their distance. Their body shakes with anger over Vael's latest attempt on their lives, and the old self-loathing for the life they have condemned on her, but there's fewer vengeful outbursts this time, as they breathe deep and reflexive, willing it all to subside.

"I'm proud of you," Hawke's whisper breaks the silence, taking their face in her hands, and they kiss her until Anders once more finds his voice.


	7. A Just Courtship

_**Prompt: **The merger between Anders and Justice went off without a hitch, and freed from concerns about his corruption the spirit decides to play match-maker for Anders and Hawke. A what-if for my Strongest Force OT3._

**A Just Courtship****  
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Time in this mortal plane was measured in its differences, its similarities - the slow shifting dance of seasons, passage of the sun and moon. Some days it felt as if the spirit did nothing but bombard his friend with questions, his curiosity insatiable in the constant stream of comparison and contrast. Thus, the assessment of the two most important women in their lives seemed inevitable.

It would be easy to say they were like day and night, and simply leave it at that; the physical dissonance certainly led credence to this theory. The Warden-Commander had ever been quick to fury, with hair like fresh-spun flax and dark-olive eyes that simmered their resentments. Hawke, however, is all quiet stillness, midnight hour made flesh between moonlike pallor and raven tress. But such an easy assertion would ultimately founder upon more careful scrutiny.

The two women equally suffered their hardships with perseverance, and rising above their allotted station in life, elf and mage respectively, a feat in and of itself worthy of deep respect. Life in the Alienage had been hard, the Blight only molding her vitriolic exterior further, but both spirit and man had seen in Kallian Tabris countless example of her hidden capacity for kindness - the same compassion that Marian Hawke wore so easily on her sleeve.

And while the Warden-Commander had been "off-limits," as far as Anders was concerned, Hawke, though, had no such attachments - a observation that Justice noted swiftly given the manner in which Anders could make her smile; the way the Warden-Commander only did whenever she received a missive from her Antivan assassin.

Not many women would still actively seek company with a spirit-possessed man - Why, then, did Anders hesitate?

Justice certainly had no objection; their fusion had gone flawlessly, despite the potential complication of Anders' deep seated anger and hatred. To deny his friend the freedom and love that they were attempting to secure for every mage would be selfish and wrong, and, in truth, Justice had come to admire Hawke as much as Anders did. But for all the spirit's reassurances, Anders floundered around her, his normally faultless flirtations falling flat and awkward at times.

It was then that Justice concluded that, for all of the mage's prior philandering and frivolous flings, when given a deeper and more meaningful prospect than a quick tumble Anders was _completely_ and _utterly_ hopeless.

* * *

><p>"Well!" Anders exclaimed in a overly-bright tone. Their former patient had just left the clinic, fully healed, but perhaps not as happy as he ought to be. "That... was improvement."<p>

"Which part - actually beginning to repair the break or stopping in time so you could step in and _reset_ it properly first?"

"This isn't the easiest branch of magic to learn, Hawke." Anders sat beside her, frowning at the scowl on her face. "And I can't say that I'm the best teacher."

Hawke scoffed, glaring at her hands as if they personally offended her. "Nonsense. I'm just rubbish. I'll always be rubbish at it. Marian makes things go Boom. That is my lot in life."

"Yes, but you do that _spectacularly_." Anders said lightly, her lips twitching upwards momentarily at this kindness. "You're still a tremendous help here. It's good having another set of hands around - healing or otherwise."

Hawke blushed slightly, and shook her head. "I'm just trying to butter you up so you'll come to the Deep Roads with me."

"And you're a terrible liar," The mage countered, and so caught up in her flush and her smile, continued plowing along in his old flirtatious habits. "Although, if that truly were the case I could think of some far more effective forms of bribery... "

Justice felt Anders' scream of self-censure, the mage realizing his lascivious tone, wincing inwardly, and failed to see - though Justice did not - the brief sparkle of hope in Hawke's eyes that was quickly extinguished. Anders quickly rose to his feet, attempting to play off his unease with a hopefully winsome smile. "Same time tomorrow then?"

She took a moment to conceal her disappointment, her answering smile sweet and open. "Always."

And the heavy sigh Anders gave as she left the clinic was simply too much. This was intolerable, and Justice refused to watch this travesty continue.

_Why do you balk? Do you doubt that she does not welcome your company?_

Anders started, suddenly glad that patient was their last for the day - Holding conversations with oneself tended to be both distracting and disquieting for anyone else watching. _No... Yes. Maybe? Everything's all... pear-shaped._ Anders felt the buzz of the spirit's curiosity at that choice of words, and decided to head off that diversion. _Figure of speech, Justice._

_You are attracted to her. You worship her from afar. The next logical progression would be to declare your devotion._ Justice felt another surge of anxiety from his friend. _You fear rejection? This did not appear to be a concern for you in the past._

_This... is different. She's different! I'm -_

_Different. I see._ Justice understood the problem now. Ever considerate of their unique circumstances, Hawke would not pressure action or confession from Anders... and this show of restraint only served to further fluster the mage. He did not wish the ruin this beautiful thing, and would rather condemn himself before he'd even begun.

Anders flopped unhappily on a cot. _Why is this so bloody difficult? If you fancied someone in the Circle, all you did was wink and go for the nearest convenient bookcase._

_But you did not love in the Circle._

Anders didn't refute that, deflected instead. _Where's all this coming from? I should hardly think you're any more of an expert on this than I am._

_Kristoff was married._

_**Kristoff** was married. You weren't._

_Nevertheless, I retain memories of his love for Aura and their courtship._

_I'm... going to regret asking this, aren't I?_ Anders groaned visibly. _All right. What did he do?_

Justice paused, in reflection, sorting through the lingering fragments as easily as one would separate wheat from chaff, an alien discomfort of _something_ shifting around in their mind, and Anders realized with chagrin that the spirit will, too, remember everything Anders ever was and shall be long after he is gone.

_He called upon her at home, often merely to talk and take joy in her company, but on rare occasion with the presentation of a thoughtful token._ Justice sensed Anders begin to protest, legitimate concerns, for they have no coin to waste in idleness between the cause and the clinic. _Kristoff was not affluent either. Once, he put to pen Aura's many virtues for her to read, in verse. It was most touching._

_You want me to write poetry? Tell me you're joking. Unless you want a bawdy limerick, of course._ Anders laughed out loud at the imagery, the concept of the battle-harden Kristoff possessing such a tender soul, but a sense of humor was not something Justice had developed thus far, especially where his former host was concerned. Displeasure grew like a headache, and the spirit's answer is a flicker of memory; how Aura's eyes shined with delight, breathing in the simple perfume of a bouquet of flowers. Her eyes were not the same sort of blue as Hawke's, her hair day to Hawke's night, but the image lanced the mage nevertheless - the heavenly glow of love around her, her angelic smile, and Anders dared to dream Hawke in Aura's place, looking at them that way.

Affection spread throughout them, gentle and warm. _And you think this would work? Assuming Hawke's even the type for flowers -_

_Acceptance of Kristoff's tokens encouraged the courtship to continue; regardless whether the gift pleased her, as a lady, if Hawke welcomed your further attentions she would accept this favor with equal grace. And if not -  
><em>

_- there's no point in pining._ Anders sighed. _But at least I'd know._

Justice waited, for some indication that Anders either approved or disliked this proposal, but patience is still a foreign, elusive concept for the spirit the grasp. With a small measure of trepidation, Justice pressed again, giving the mage assurances. _She... might like small purple flowers._ Anders furrowed his brow, frowning with quiet interest. _She - I have seen her in the Fade. She held them, once, and looked wistful._

_You've been following her?_ Anders' jaw dropped at the spirit's confession, despite Justice's elaboration that it was out of concern for her well-being, and promptly shuts their mouth again from the resulting implications. Anders chuckled briefly, at how spirit and man are so evenly smitten with her, and pinched the bridge of their nose. _Oh good. And here I thought I was being the creepy one._

* * *

><p>There was only one companion who was knowledgeable enough to aid them in this endeavor and who could also be entrusted enough to keep it secret. The little elvhen blood mage remained a detriment to their cause - a poor example of what mages might do with their freedom - but in this capacity she proved useful, and had listened to their request with earnest.<p>

"Oh! You mean _vhenan'ara?_ It's nowhere near as common here as it was back in Fereldan, but I do remember seeing bits of it here and there about the slopes of Sundermount." Merrill chatted blithely.

"And that's the same flower?" Anders asked, wanting the same flower, or as close thereabouts, that Justice had described. "Are you sure?"

"Quite certain. Why? Do you need it for the clinic? I thought you and Hawke replenished your stock last week. Sure it's good for aliments in the chest, but you'd do just as well breathing in embrium..."

"This isn't for the clinic," Anders replied, tersely.

"Well, I can't imagine what you'd need a flower for otherwise. 'sides finally courting Hawke, of course."

And there it was.

"You're courting her!" Merrill gasped, eyes going wide, as she clapped excitedly.

Anders sighed, more annoyed with himself than the blood mage stumbling upon their true purpose. "Is it really that obvious?"

"Creators, yes. Oh, we've been making bets for _weeks_," Merrill giggled. "Actually, I don't think Isabela cares overmuch whether it's you or Fenris so long as one of you makes a move, but you are just too _adorable_!"

Justice bristled inside at the idea of the mage-hating Beast stealing Hawke away, and Anders gritted his teeth. "Will you help me or not?"

Merrill seemed to gain control of herself, quietly shushing her mirth, and genially patted Anders on the arm. "Don't be silly - Of course I will," She smiled sympathetically, much to Anders' relief. "Should you kiss her within the week, I'll win the pot."

* * *

><p>Love, Anders was beginning to realize, was the oddest sort of madness; considerably more potent than the tawdry romance novels, which one of the Senior Enchanters at the Circle was always leaving around, suggested. Why else would he spend half a freakishly warm day trampling all around Sundermount, with his only company - other than Justice, naturally - Merrill of all people? (And good thing she had come, he admitted grudgingly, considering the spiders. Maker, he hated spiders. Those oversized bastards might not be ranked high on his List of Hatred, not with templars, darkspawn, and Fenris as competition, but being overrun by gigantic, <em>hairy<em> spiders would make anyone twitchy around them.)

Once they'd gathered enough flowers for a decent-sized bunch, Merrill surprised Anders again with her kindness, providing a bit of string she'd cut from her ball of twine to bind the lot together. Then, they had to hurry back to Kirkwall, Anders forced to flash-freeze the bundle occasionally to prevent it from wilting in the heat, and now, at the corner of Lowtown and the Alienage, the Dalish woman gave him a thorough appraisal.

"Oh dear. You don't have time to have a wash first, do you?" Anders gave her a long-suffering look as she dusted down the worst of the travel from his coat, and pulled an odd chunk of seared spider from his feathered pauldrons. "No, I suppose not. It'd be too late otherwise, wouldn't it? If you wanted to catch her before supper..." Merrill murmured thoughtfully in Elvhen, and after a moment's deliberation, untied the scarf around her neck, extending it towards his face.

Anders reflexively jerked backward, at which Merrill merely clucked her tongue. "Do you want to look like something the tabbies leave on my doorstep?"

"...No." He said peevishly.

"Then hold still." And as the Dalish woman gingerly wiped away most of the grime he'd acquired, grumbling how "he might hate her, but she'd never, ever dream of hurting him" Anders felt, from Justice of all places, a twinge of remorse concerning how harsh they had been recently on her use of blood magic and dealings with demons. This wasn't just about winning a bet; she was being _nice_, as well.

"There, that's much better." Merrill proclaimed, once she was finished to her satisfaction. "Completely adorable, really, all this trouble you've gone through..."

"Merrill? Thanks... for all this. I mean it." Anders hesitated for a moment, but figured after everything she'd done today he owed her some truth. "And for the record, I don't hate you. I just think you're bloody crazy. Sweet, but crazy."

Merrill smiled, and patted his cheek. "I could say the same about you. Now, go on and stop being so grumpy."

* * *

><p>Standing on Hawke's doorstep, feeling for all the world like a fool with a bundle of flowers in one hand, Anders had to remind himself that he'd done plenty of stupid things where a woman was concerned. The broodmothers of Kal'Hirol, and hordes of darkspawn in Amarathine easily came to mind, no matter had hard he'd tried to forget them. Presenting some pansies should be trivial in comparison, yet the prospect of actually <em>knocking<em> on Hawke's door was, at this moment, more terrifying than facing an Archdemon.

_Courage, friend. Do not run, for there is no reward without risk._

Nodding silently from the spirit's words, Anders steeled himself, and knocked on the door. Muffled shouting resonated from within, stomping footsteps, and the creak of the door from someone who was distinctly _not_ Marian Hawke, leaving Anders to swiftly hide the flora bundle behind his back.

"Oh. It's you," Carver said churlishly, "What do you want?"

"Is your sister at home?" Anders replied as calmly as he could, suppressing his own distaste; he doubted Hawke would be in a receptive mood if she caught him arguing with brother again.

"Maybe. Why?"

"Someone asking for me?" A voice called from inside, then its lovely owner materialized beside Carver, out of the leather and armor Anders so frequently saw her in, and fussing at the damp locks of her hair. Andraste help him; She'd just gotten out of the _bath_ - the thought alone was doing him no courtesy.

"Anders!" She exclaimed, turning legs into jelly with her wonderfully surprised smile, though elation faded into swift concern, voice dropping into lower tones. "Is something wrong? Oh, Maker, the templars haven't found you, have they?"

"I... No, nothing like that. Look, do you have a moment? Alone." He added, with a look to her brother.

Nonplussed, she shooed Carver back inside over his grousing, pulled the door closed, and moved over to the small alcove against the wall for whatever privacy it afforded. Justice grumbled something about Hawke hardly being appropriately attired to receive a suitor, barefooted in her long cream-colored shift; Anders, however, hardly cared one bit about the indecency, determined to commit the image to memory should she reject him.

Realizing he'd been staring at her, while she waited with a patient if not faintly confused air, he swallowed hard, and leaped into lands unknown. "I have something for you," He confessed, offering the bouquet to her, hoping desperately they hadn't wilted too badly.

He heard her breath catch, as she carefully took the bundle from him. "These can't be - No, they _are._" She looked at him briefly in wonder, and them back at the flowers. "Hearts-ease. Anders, where did you find them?"

"Sundermount. I thought you might like them." The words come out in a nervous rush. Her fingers caressed the blossoms, staring, trancelike, at dreams made reality. "You do, right? Like them?"

She nodded slowly, one slim hand rising to her mouth, and something is _wrong_, her voice is soft, but so very sad. "I... yes. I do." And looking back at him with a half-smile, to his horror Anders saw that, yes, those are _tears_ - Justice recoiled inside, aggrieved at this error in judgment. How could they have been so careless? They'd gotten this all wrong and now they'd hurt her. It was infinitely worse than rejection.

_"Hawke."_

"Bethany and I used to plait this in our hair, when we were little," She continued, half laughing, half crying. "Father would call us his two little weeds."

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to bring up - Maker, I'm such a fool," Dejected and ashamed, he turned to leave, unable to bear the anguish he's caused her, with her sister's death still so fresh to her, and knows that the image of her tears is the memory that will forever haunt him.

"No! Please," She caught his arm, tugging him back with irresistible force, blinking back her tears like mad. "I'll stop crying, just please don't go, not after this." She drew a shaky breath, laughing again, this time in self-depreciation, and wordless, helpless against her pull, Anders enfolded her in a hug, feeling guilty at how good it was to hold her, even as she dabbed furtively at her eyes.

"Let me start over - They're lovely, Anders." She managed at last, glancing up from the bunch of hearts-ease. "Thank you, for thinking of me."

"...You're welcome, Marian." He breathed, hopeless fool he may be, but she's _smiling_.

"If there's anything else," Hawke ventured tentatively, nervously wetting her lips as she searched his face to gauge reaction, "That you might want to give to me. I... I'll react much better, I promise."

That's all the acceptance he needed.

Justice rumbled that Kristoff would not have kissed Aura the first time he called on her, but he wasn't Kristoff, and she wasn't Aura; she wasn't Kallian Tabris or any of the lovers he's kissed in his colorful past. She was Marian Hawke, and _she_ had chosen _him_.

He'd intended it to be sweet; it had started out that way, leaning in as he held her cheek. But she surrendered her mouth to him, and welcomed his demanding tongue, with that soft little gasp that unraveled him. Suddenly, he's pressed her against the brick wall, uncaring who might see, unconcerned that her family waits just beyond that door, not when her body is warm against his, and she tastes like spiced tea.

As his hands began to roam her curves the spirit disapproved, reprimand in the form of a ripple of blue light that fades as soon as it appears, and Anders faltered, breaking apart. "Sorry. Justice thinks I'm taking advantage of you," He said, despite not being sorry _at all_, and she smirked, lips dewy and thoroughly kissed.

"Insisting on propriety?"

"As fitting for a lady."

"That's sweet, but I'd have to swear a whole lot less to be a lady, I think." She chuckled, blue eyes delighted nevertheless. She adopted her best posh tone. "But if that's the case, would you care to join us for dinner, serah? Perhaps - if you don't think me too forward - followed with a stroll about the town?"

Anders grinned. "I would, indeed."

And it's an absolutely smashing evening, even if Justice played the chaperone.


End file.
